rain
by firefight40
Summary: first try at fiction. 11 just after the angels take Manhattan. no he isn't gonna be his usual joking facaded-y self. he's gonna be the self-hating, mournful, deeply hurt depressed self. i think. i dunno yet. :( again. first try at fanfic EVER
1. Chapter 1

the wish for an umbrella- was the foremost thought in wilburys heavily sleep-muddled mind as he stumbled along wet and dreary sidewalks, feet sloshing in the puddles spilling over from the overflowing gutters.  
>fitfully, he tried to tug his feeble knit cap over most of his face, blocking off a near-unobstructed by anything other than rain-but rather redundant view of a startling storm-grey sky while utterly failing to block any more than thirty precent of the incoming rain.<br>the raggedy old umbrella had given his lax hands a rebellious slip just under half-an-hour ago. whisking away in the same thieving gust of current that had playfully slid the sagging cap practically over to the back of his rain-slicked skull. a position which-although was very much approved by the back of his head did absolutely no justice to his front, which caused the aforementioned front to quickly lose all remaining visibility and with sudden decisiveness go flying left-year-forward in direct collision with the nearest wall-accounting for the state of sleep-muddledness.  
>if that even was a word.<br>all the while willburry continued to stumble on forward, hands clenched fitfully now above his brow as he shielded himself from the most immediate downpour of rain. somewhere in the back of his thoroughly shaken mind-a little voice piped that 'concussion' was a far more fitting term than 'sleep-muddledness' at the given moment. and more-or-less always. but all that fitful and thoroughly ignored and forgotten subconscious musing-it must be said-was, at least to willburry himself at that moment completely inconsequent, and went unnoticed by the muster himself in the face of the seemingly more pressing demand for an umbrella.  
>perhaps the sleep-muddledness itself was at fault for making an umbrella seem to the young man more important than the inner workings of the delicate biological machine that in normal circumstances should've been soundly alerting willburry to the the fact of something having gone completely and utterly wrong. but since willbury was-in fact-or essence, at the very least-that very delicate machine, which was now quite decidedly out-of order and less than capable of notifying anyone-not in the least itself-of there being anything wrong whatsoever-except for that persistent and nagging non-existence of an umbrella- he was completely unaware of the severe mental trauma now seeping its deadening roots deep inside his skull.<br>unaware of the..and then the world went mad.  
>rian and sky upended upon each other. torrents of sky went rushing up willburys nose while the sky slapped him soundly in the back of his head, and all he could see was earth… earth… earth… whirling and drenched and tumbling and roaring and completely bonkers and swirling like a cloud of angry locusts somewhere far far far above him… and...and... the rest was blackness.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

no. none of these characters are mine. and i has no idea what in the name of lizardkind am i doing. suggestion will be welcome.

Never before had the word explosion been an apter word to compare the violence that erupted in a poor, nearly insignificant street on that far side of london, that before could the word explosion be more apt a comparison to the intensity of the fight that went on that one gloomy day in Victorian London.

More often than not, the word explosion could be used to describe light, loud, spontaneous noise. In the case of this short scuffle, the movement itself was explosive, and the air itself was already quite nearly seething with angry, heated energy even before strax drew his blaster.

But what came before was just as—if not more important as the fight and its consequence. If far less interesting in the sonatarans mind.

The graceful home of the married gay human-lizard couple and their cloned, alien, pyromanic servant-nurse stood as proudly as ever that day, radiant in comparison its lesser, darker neighbors. All occupied by presumably normal enough—broadly speaking—human beings.

The man hurried along the cobbled paths that led to the house with haste impressive for a man of his attire. The tight suit that bound his body quite nearly creaked with every step as he tried his best to not trip over larger, more apparent cobblestones while running—or rather stumbling—straight legged down the rain beaten paths lit, that day, by uncharacteristically bright sunlight, earning more than one odd glance for passing citizens dismayed at such a vibrant display of graceless impatience.

But soon enough he reached the sweeping Victorian porch, and the horse and stagecoach standing before it. Two grubbily dressed manservants caring for the horse cried out in alarm as the frightened animal bucked and snorted at the scent of the untidy stranger. Its hooves lashed the air and it pranced backwards, eyes rolling wildly, the stagecoach rattling behind it at an angle as it turned to the side.

The man swooped forward nonetheless, nearly falling to sprawl across the steps as he attempted to execute a wild sort of pirouette and leap up the porch. He barely caught himself upon the railings as his left leg shifted unnaturally at the knee from the strain. A loud, frightening crack echoed across the street and the man cried out and then hissed, panting slightly. Something thick bulged at the fabric of his pant leg. The servants were still far too busy trying to pacify the frantic equine-that had run itself into a corner and somehow managed to tangle its reins in a mess of suspended oil lamps-to notice.

The word _good._ Ran through the mans' mind as he quickly shifted position to a sideways one, and proceeded to pull himself up the steps with one leg dragging limply behind. An observant enough witness might've noted the strange lack of expression other than a sudden increasing paleness in the man's face as he threw his mangled body across the porch, and reached up, standing upon one knee to reach the ornate knocker.

But even before his fingers touched the gilded metal, there was a sharp patter of footsteps and a hasty click as the door was opened from the inside. Unable to keep his balance, the man—like his human counterpart in that past, rain-filled alley—couldn't stop himself from falling forward, one hand just managing to stop the ground from breaking his nose.

But then his head connected painfully to the metal of the porch, glancing off his temple, and he crumpled. Frantic mind screaming to a stop even as everything—the light, the distant, frantic, cries of the frightened horse, the swearing of the men, even the warmth of sunlight, and the sight of that pair of Sonotaran feet in their well-polished, black shoes—faded into darkness. The last thing heard was some jumbled phrase uttered by the Sonotaran.

"Call… Vastra," he tried to gasp, opening his eyes blearily to glare up at the potatolike head. "Tell…"


	3. Chapter 3

Jenny had just come thru the doorway from madame vastras sitting room/terrarium, bearing a small, delicate tea set on the silver ornate platter she herself had picked out a few weeks back. vastra had seemed oddly out-of-sorts that day, refusing any invitations to indulge in art or music, otherwise distract herself from her ceaseless brooding over cut up old newspapers despite the fact of there being no sign of any trouble, no summons from Scotland Yard. And despite all that, the ancient hominid seemed to grow more and more impatient and paranoid with every day. Her usual calm, graceful, cold, snakelike demeanor turning to a sort of nervous waiting. Like a lizard sensing the impending strike of an eagle's beak, yet refusing to run. Choosing instead to wait.. Watch.. Listen…

distracted by her brooding about her mistresses health-both mental and physical—jenny only at the last moment before passing into the adjoining kitchen did notice strax bending over the prone body of some spindly, apparently unconscious man. The sight of a complete stranger sprawled with his head cracked open upon the porch elicited a perfectly rational reaction from the girl. Namely—a complete and utter spillage of tea and china, and a brief, fearful cry.

when the cry ended and she felt a little foolish from her reaction, strax straightened up from checking the man's vitals.

"good morning, sir." The Sontaran acknowledged. Inclining his short body forward in the equivalent of a bow.

jenny stared, still gasping.  
>"what happened strax?" jenny murmured, still panting slightly, her apron wet from spilt tea.<p>

The Sontaran half turned with little shuffling steps to glance at her-then back at the body. "i opened the door, and it fell inside. sir. would you like me to vaporise its head?" his three-fingered hand moved suggestively towards the blaster concealed at his thick waist beneath the butlers attire.  
>"no, no," she said hurriedly. "thank you, that won't be necessary. what <em>is<em> going on with that horse?" she tried to pear above Straxes' short but wide bulk to the brightness behind as the Sontaran grabbed the man's spindly out-thrown arm and heaved him inside, slinging him easily over a shoulder and ambling off to the nearest couch before dropping him down upon the cushions and tottering over to the nearest shelf to retrieve the medical kit and scanner.

the horse outside continued to buck and twist in the hands of its handlers, trying its best to kick itself free of the harness. its screams were turning the heads of people nearby. the Sontaran was busying himself with the body, drawing the scanner over the sprawling thin frame. he turned, though, when he heard jenny heading towards the open door. "would you like me to _assist_ you on the matter, sir?" he asked "horses can be notoriously vile, and stubborn creatures. i personally think a few…"  
>"strax, for the last time, we are not getting rid of the horse." jenny growled, pulling on a pair of comfortable boots.<br>" well it wouldn't be getting rid of the _whole_ thing." the Sontaran argued "the beam of a Sontaran hyperblaster, when properly adjusted by an expert…" he lowered his voice suggestively. " _me_-could shoot with enough precision to-at a distance of approximately twenty meters-easily sever only the legs off a horse."

the girl snorted with laughter. "oh and blasting its legs to ashes is not getting rid of it." she fixed strax with a pointed glare from where he stood besides the unconscious man. the Sontaran glanced in bewilderment at the body, then at jenny, and without so much as the hint of sarcasm, uttered "no?"

jenny gave him a pitying look. "believe me, strax-it is." she told him and whisked out the open door.  
>the Sontaran was left standing behind in the well furnished living room, beside the sprawling, wiry body of the stranger. all he had to offer on the matter was a quiet "oh."<p>

he stood there for a few more seconds until the scanner suddenly screamed out with alarm in his hands.


End file.
